


Jerem6401: Origins

by rage_quitter



Series: Immortal FAHC Origin Stories [9]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Immortal Fake AH Crew, Immortality, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 23:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5024407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rage_quitter/pseuds/rage_quitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molasses. Of all the ways to die, it was molasses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jerem6401: Origins

Jeremy Dooley lived a simple life. He was a driver, on his day off. The work was boring, and people were obnoxious to deal with. He’d have preferred pretty much any other job. It was okay though.

Up until he died, Jeremy was just like anyone else. He had a small apartment, was friendly with the neighbors, and liked music a lot. He voted, he paid taxes, he read the newspaper every day.

It was January 15, 1919. Jeremy was twenty four years old. It was a surprisingly warm day, compared to the freezing weather from the last couple of weeks.

He was taking a lunch break, visiting a small shop run by the brother of a girl he was sweet on. It was about 12:30 in the afternoon when he exited, whistling and adjusting his hat.

The ground shook.

People all around him stumbled. A low rumble groaned through the earth, growing louder, like a train. Jeremy grabbed on to a carriage on the street to steady himself.

At the same time, he heard loud popping, banging sounds, like rapidly fired bullets. Heads turned, searching for source of the sound.

The smell hit him first. Sweet, so very sweet, sickening. A smell that would torment him for decades. He couldn’t place it at first until he saw the wave of molasses rushing towards him. Screams were swallowed, horse hooves clattered on the pavement and stopped too suddenly.

Jeremy had no time to move beyond trying to catch cover behind the carriage. It swept over him, and it was hot, and sticky, and it filled his mouth and nose and he squeezed his eyes shut as the thick syrup crushed his body. He flailed, trying to find the surface, to find the ground, anything, but it was futile.

He didn’t see the carriage fall on top of him, but he felt it pin him to the ground and the molasses press it into his chest. Pain burst in his chest as it cracked his ribs, his collarbones, and splinters of sugar covered wood from the broken carriage stabbed into his skin.

He choked to death on molasses and his own blood.

The same smell stayed in his nose, the ground was still growling, when he woke up with his clothes sticky. He saw the end of the wave of the molasses oozing down the street and felt nausea bubble in his gut. He stumbled away from the flood to find somewhere to throw up.

In the days following, every whiff of anything sweeter than milk made him sick, and it made him angry because up until then he loved sweets, and everything was fucked. That rage and nausea followed him for years, countering each other.

He moved away from the area as soon as he could. “I got hurt in the flood,” he told people as he rubbed absently at the silver scars under his shirt. “I don’t want to remember it anymore.”

He didn’t figure out what happened until almost ten years later, when a horse kicked him in the head and crushed his skull.

In retrospect he thought he would’ve been scared, panicking, but he wasn’t. It was more of an annoyance. He couldn’t die, huh? Well, fuck you, fate, he thought, as he attempted to kill himself out of spite time and time again. Every time, he woke up in a fit of irritation a mile away.

Old age never came, either. He became a recluse, living in a small house by himself and hardly bothering with anything at all, sticking to his time in the 1920s, through the depression and the wars following. In the mid-1950s, Jeremy couldn’t stand Boston anymore. He moved south, to New York, and looked to the entertainment business that was really gaining momentum there for work.

In 1968, he met Matt Bragg. Tall, scrawny, and scars on his body from falling off of the Empire State Building, Matt became his first real friend in a very long time. They were thick as thieves, literally, as time went on and they turned to crime for fun. Jeremy sold drugs, and Matt liked stealing and taking apart and rebuilding cars.

Matt made Jeremy catch up. Jeremy was reluctant to get with the times, even as Matt called him a crotchety old man and made him watch movies.

In the 1980s rap and metal took off, and Jeremy found his calling in music. He won preposterous amounts of money through underground rap battles while dealing.

They moved to Los Santos upon hearing about the crime in the city, the potential it had. Matt set up a mechanic shop as a front to his arms smuggling and car stealing ring.

Jeremy apparently pissed off the wrong guy as he settled into dealing in Los Santos. He took a shot to the knee and earful of nasty words from a guy no older than he was (or at least, how old he was when he died) in a purple hoodie and a cheap white mask. Matt told him later about the angry guy with a golden gun in his car, one scarily like the one wielded by Fake AH Crew’s British member.

It was a slow day when it happened. Matt was sitting in his mechanic shop picking his nails while Jeremy was perched on a workbench scrawling lyrics into a notebook. The old radio on the counter was on low volume, and the ceiling fan creaked overhead.

The door chimed cheerfully. Matt and Jeremy jumped at the sound, and scrambled to look professional.

“Hey, welcome to Axial Repair and Wear, how can…”

The radio continued to play softly beyond the gentle static as the two stared in shock at the grinning skull who entered the shop, one hand resting too casually on the holster at his waist.

The Vagabond.

“Is this… is this a bad time?”

“Uh…” Matt stared at him with wide eyes.

“I mean, I kind of uh, wrecked my friend’s bike and gotta get it fixed, uh, can you… I can pay for it.”

“I… I…” Matt swallowed. “You…”

The Vagabond tilted his head, and then his piercing blue eyes blinked. “Oh! Shit, uh, right, um. Not robbing you, don’t worry, I just want my friend’s bike fixed. It’s not that bad, really, he’s just a little bitch about it. I only dented it a little.”

“O-Okay,” Matt said in a small voice. “Go ahead and, uh, just take it to the garage, I’ll be right there.”

The Vagabond sounded like he was smiling as he said, “Thanks!” He turned and walked back out.

“Well, fuck,” Jeremy said.

“That- That was—“ Matt looked flabbergasted.

“Yeah.”

“He wants me to fix his bike.” Matt’s voice was shrill.

“Don’t keep him waiting,” Jeremy advised. “Look, man, a customer’s a customer, right?”

Matt nodded slowly. “Right. Okay.”

“Come on, Matt, Jesus, not like he can really do anything to us anyway. Immortal, remember?”

“Yeah. You’re right. But you’re coming with me.”

Jeremy bitched about it, but shadowed after his much taller friend. The bike really wasn’t in too bad of a condition, though there were bloodstains on it. Jeremy grumbled as he helped Matt by fetching tools for him. The Vagabond stood off to the side, occasionally doing something on his phone. Texting, probably, Jeremy guessed.

It took about forty five minute to fix it, mostly just to replace the front tire and adjust the handlebars and pop a couple of dents back into place. Or something like that, Jeremy didn’t really know much about mechanics and didn’t care to. Jeremy kept an eye on the Vagabond.

“All right, should be good to go,” Matt said finally.

“Thanks!” The Vagabond said cheerfully. “Uh… sorry about this, by the way.”

Jeremy wasn’t able to curse before the gun muzzle in his face went to black with a bang.

Matt came back to life before Jeremy did, because when he woke up with a swear Matt was already there looking scared and angry.

“That motherfucker!” Jeremy exclaimed as he jumped to his feet. “I’ll kill him!”

“What do we do?” Matt asked.

“We go back and strangle that asshole! I’m not giving up anything because he decided to shoot us. He’s the only one who knows, we’ll be fine.”

Jeremy seething and Matt silently worrying, the two walked the couple of blocks back to Matt’s shop. The Vagabond and the bike were both missing, but nothing else was. Their own blood, spayed against the floors and walls, was starting to dissolve. It always took the longest.

Jeremy immediately went back inside to the reception area, and was startled to see a bag on the counter. He walked up to it warily, expecting a bomb or something. Instead he found a few stacks of cash and a neatly written note.

“Matt,” Jeremy called as he read over the note.

“What’s up?” Matt replied, wiping grease from his hands with a rag.

“I think we might have just gotten ourselves a job interview.”

“What?”

Jeremy held out the note. “We’re meeting Geoff Ramsey in two days to talk about a position with the Fake AH Crew.”


End file.
